Shadow of Ararat

THE KERENOS RIVER, ALBANIA

H

Surrounded by a thick wall of red-haired Varangians, their round shields turned outward, the three Emperors conferred. Beyond the stolid Germans and Scandians, tens of thousands of men were marching past, raising a choking cloud of clay dust from the dry road. Eastern and Western regiments jostled on the road, trying to keep their order of march open. Galen had dispensed with his servants, bidding them remain in the camp five miles behind them. Three of the Western Emperor’s staff officers clustered at his back. The Khazar, Ziebil, as was his wont, was alone. Heraclius, half clad in his battle armor-a solid breastplate of welded iron with a pair of eagles emblazoned on the chest-had ten or twelve servants, officers, and dispatch riders crowded around.

“Augustus Galen, your Legions have the center.”

Heraclius gestured toward the open fields to the south of where they stood. The Romans pouring past on the road were fanning out into the rocky flat by cohort and century.

Their standards jogged up and down as the bearers trotted across the field. Only one good road ran south from the camp across the river and into this dry upland. Ziebil’s scouts had returned the previous night from their latest foray south of the river with news that the Persian army was, at last, in striking range. The Romans had broken camp well before dawn, the Khazars riding out in complete darkness to secure the road and the northern edge of the plain.

“Khan Ziebil, your horsemen are on the left, though keep a strong reserve behind the line of battle. The woods are thick there, and I fear the Persians may try to send men through the brush to attack the flank.”

It was almost noon now, and the majority of the army was still backed up on the road, trying to reach the flats. Galen’s Western legions had made the best time, forming up in the camp on schedule and marching out in orderly fashion. The Sixth Gemina had reached the field at sunrise and had deployed to screen the arrival of the following elements. Galen, pushing his horse and his guardsmen, had arrived soon after dawn to find the legionnaires loitering around under the trees. There had been no Persians in sight.

“Theodore.” Heraclius turned to his brother, attired much like him, down to the red boots, in heavy armor and chain mail under the solid plate. “You and I will command the right, with the Eastern knights and the Anatolikon thematic troops as reserve. Once we-have shaken the line out and there is proper spacing between the tagmata, we will attack. If the Persians are still in confusion, we will advance along the entire front and drive them back into the trees. If they have formed a good line, then the Khazars”-Heraclius nodded to Ziebil-“will feint on the left and then we shall attack on the right.”

The Western Legions were on the field by ten o’clock. The archers and slingers Galen had sent forward to screen the assembling legions had reported back that an enormous Persian army had begun to spill out of the tree line on the southern edge of the fields. The Khazars began arriving in bands and companies, generally congregating to the left of the Roman positions, and the Eastern knights were still clogging the road from the camp. After receiving reports that estimated the size of the Persian army in excess of a hundred thousand men, Galen had ridden forward himself and stared in awe at the multitude of Persians on the southern side of the plain.

Thousands of banners already fluttered in the morning breeze and still more bands of men were coming out of the forest. The enemy army was a riot of color-yellow banners and green, red surcoats on some mounted men and bright blue on others. Each band seemed to have a different garb, or even different styles of dress. It was hard to tell at this range.

At eleven o’clock there had easily been a hundred twenty thousand men in the enemy lines, jostling and milling about in apparent confusion. If the reports of the Khazar scouts were to be believed, the enemy forces who had reached the field were peasant levies armed with wicker shields, spears, and other light arms. While he watched, some contingents of horsemen in furry vests and round caps had arrived, trotting out in front of the ragged Persian line. Galen had shaken his head and ridden back to his own troops, who had taken orderly positions and were standing ready, leaning on their spears and swords, waiting.

“Any questions?” Heraclius glanced at Galen, who had a pensive look on his face. “Augustus Galen?”

“Yes… it seems that we are likely to be outnumbered by almost two to one at the rate that the Persians reinforcements keep arriving. The enemy seems confused, however. I propose sending our thaumaturges forward to attack the enemy formations with sorcery while they are attempting to form up. The longer they stay at the tree line, the more room we will have to maneuver.”

Heraclius scowled, for Galen had not discussed this notion with him the previous night when the plan of battle was laid out. He glanced at his officers, one of whom was a wizard himself. “Demosthenes?”

The elderly man coughed in surprise and rubbed his long nose. “Avtokmtor, the primary role of thaumaturges in battle has always been one of defense, to protect the army from the sendings of the enemy. The will and sinew of men has always been the deciding factor for Roman armies, not the strength of our magicians. Speaking plainly, my lord, my brothers and I are not skilled in the arts of attack, not like the Persians are. Now, a siege…” ?Heraclius cut him off with a look. The Eastern Emperor glared at Galen.

“Some of my wizards,” Galen said, calmly, “are skilled in the arts of attack. I will send them forward with the skirmishers to disrupt the enemy ranks. It will buy us a little more time to deploy.”

“Very well,” Heraclius snapped. “They are your men, use them as you see fit. Gentlemen, to your commands. We will have victory this day, or perish.”

The Khan Ziebil yawned and pushed his way through the crowd of men. His horse, a sleek lustrous black creature, was waiting. He vaulted easily into the saddle and kneed her forward, disappearing, into the flow of men and horses on the road. Galen looked after him, a puzzled look on his face.

“What is it?” Prince Theodore had come up alongside the Western Emperor, his young face flushed with the anticipation of battle.

“I still fail to understand why the Khazars stand with us this day. This is little affair of theirs. The risk of defeat is far higher than the reward of looting some hill towns.”

Theodore laughed and slapped Galen on the shoulder. “My brother is a shrewd bargainer. He offered the khan many fine gifts, not least his own daughter in marriage. And, the Khazars will gain much booty from this and the friendship of Constantinople. Friendship in gold and arms and training for their men weigh heavily with the khan.”

“His daughter?” Galen was outraged-he had heard nothing of this, but he had met Epiphania while in the Eastern capital. She was a shy girl with long dark hair and an interest more in music and books than politics. She and the Empress Martina got along very well, though Galen was not sure if Martina had replaced Epiphania’s dead mother or had merely become an unlooked-for older sister.

“Oh, yes.” Theodore’s eyes twinkled in delight at the discomfiture apparent on the stern face of the Western Emperor. “My brother always used to carry a picture of her with him in a cameo. He sent it to the khan months ago with the first embassy. Apparently the old man was quite taken with her.”

Galen turned away in disgust. To his Western sensibilities, it was revolting. He mounted up, pulling his helmet on. His own guardsmen gathered around him in a solid block, keeping a space clear in the mob of men that were milling around behind the lines. Theodore rode off to the right wing of the army with his coterie of young nobles thronging around him. Galen surveyed the ranks of his men. For just a moment he allowed himself to wish for Aurelian at his side and to wonder where Maxian had fled to.

Are you over there? he thought, feeling sick at the prospect. Did Persia listen to you?

“Lord Baraz! Your banner, Great Lord!”

The Boar turned in his saddle, seeing that one of the dispatch riders had managed to make his way through the ocean of infantrymen that had surged around them. The boy was carrying a furled banner across his saddle, though it was hard work keeping it from fouling in the thicket of spears and wicker shields milling past.

“Oh, Ahriman take that damned thing.” Baraz spat, his patience at an end. “The King of King’s standard is well enough for me. Get rid of it.”

The boy blanched at the naked fury in the lord general’s voice and turned away. Baraz did not give him a second thought, turning back to trying to force his own way through the press of feudal levies that hemmed him in on every side. Over the heads of the press of men, he could see a river of knights, their lances a waving steel forest, and beyond them the banner of the Lord Rhazames. He spurred his horse and it surged forward, pushing men aside. Cries of outrage rang out around him, but he did not care.

After the turmoil of the past five days, Baraz remembered his time in Syria with fondness. There, despite the poor leadership of the Great Prince Shahin, he had commanded an army of experienced men. Many of them had served with him before and knew how to march and fight. This mob was another matter. When Chrosoes had sent Gun-darnasp out to raise the “greatest army in the world” they had taken him to mean numbers, not quality. Every landowner with a spear and a nag from Nisibis to Tokharistan was jammed onto this road, along with a vast number of wagons, mules, and men on foot. Baraz managed to break out of the stream of men clogging the road and sent his horse up the side of a low embankment.

The general guessed that the army numbered almost two hundred fifty thousand men. Yet feared that for all its size, it was near useless. The ten thousand Immortals he had commanded for so long were the only reliable troops in the entire vast host. They, at least, would follow command and advance or retreat as he directed. The rest… He shook his head in dismay. For the first time since Chrosoes had launched his war of revenge nine years before, Baraz was afraid that he faced a hopeless fight.

Among the few bright spots in this canker sore of an expedition was the presence of two bands of Ephtathilite Huns, mercenaries hired by the prince of the Eastern city of Balkh. The Huns were the very devil on horseback and made superb scouts. The news that they brought him from the north was disheartening, but he was fairly sure that it was accurate. The army of the Two Emperors was just over a hundred thousand men, about half infantry and half cav airy. Had numbers been the only deciding factor, Baraz would have just pointed north and howled a command to attack. The Persians would have swamped the Romans with sheer numbers.

Unfortunately, and this was the spear that twisted in Baraz’s gut, the enemy was composed of veteran troops, well drilled and disciplined. It seemed unlikely that they would panic in the face of the Persian numbers, and that meant that the King of King’s “greatest army” would run right into a meat grinder. His one hope was to pin the enemy with his levies for long enough to bring the Immortals and the bands of heavily armored knights to bear on a flank of the Roman army, bend it back, and crush it.

He reached Rhazames’ banner and found the young nobleman and his coterie of officers shouting in confusion at each other.

Baraz bulled into the center of their conversation and raised his voice in a bellow. “Shut up! Everyone, quiet. Tell me what has happened so far.”

Rhazames cleared his throat and nervously stroked the long mustaches that spiked out from the sides of his face. He wore an open-faced helmet with an ornamental dragon enameled on its crown. He could not have been older than eighteen. “Lord Baraz! The army is still gathering and the Romans have sent their sorcerers forward. They are sending fire and lightning against the front ranks of the infantry. Many men are already dead or fleeing toward the rear.”

Baraz grimaced at the thought of the peasant infantry stampeding back into the companies of men still trying to reach the battlefield. Things were dicey enough already. “Where are our wizards?”

Rhazames shrugged, his face a mask of confusion. “I do not know, Great Lord. I thought I saw their wagons some hours ago, by the side of the road, but…”

Baraz controlled his temper with a supreme effort of will. The boy was very young, and it was quite likely that he had never commanded in battle before. His father had served Baraz in the first campaigns against Syria but had been killed in a duel at Antioch. He spurred his horse through the collection of nobles and officers, finally reaching a low mound where he could see something of the battlefield. He cursed then, for a long time and with great feeling. The entire Roman army was already on the field and in motion. He looked back, past the pale, frightened faces of his commanders, and saw that the roads were still clogged with men and animals. Not even half of his army had reached the area of battle yet. He gestured at the nearest dispatch rider, his hand chopping at the air.

“You, lad, ride like the wind to the right flank and find the Kagan of the Huns. Tell him to charge the Roman lines and spoil their advance. Then find the Lakhmid light horse I saw loafing around earlier and send them to deploy before our lines. They can drive off these magicians with javelin and lance.”

The courier put spur to horse and pelted off down the hill, dust swirling behind him.

“You, you and you… get down there into that mess and send the infantry forward and the knights to the wings. I don’t care how, just get the road cleared. More men are coming and half of the regiments I see down there are standing around wondering where they’re supposed to go.”

More men galloped away from the hilltop, banners bobbing behind them in the breeze.

“Lord Rhazames, take your household troops and form up in the center of that mob of infantry. One of your men for each five of those peasants. Spread them out and get them facing forward. Any man who has lost his spear, sword or axe, back a rank. They can pick up fallen weap ons.

The young man bowed in the saddle and then was gone in a cloud of clods and dust. His banner men hurried after, pale and frightened. Baraz sighed to see them go. He desperately missed his officers in Syria. This army was too green to stand a full day of battle against professionals un less they was very lucky. A booming sound echoed over the field. Baraz started and peered down the hill. A column of black smoke rose from before the ranks. Blue flashes of lightning rippled up and down the front. He saw men fall, burning like torches.

He turned and began, “You…” then he stopped, surprised beyond measure. “Salabalgus! What in the Corrupted World are you doing here?”

The stocky man smiled back at him, most of his face covered by the iron plates of his helmet. He wore a deep-green cloak over a battered shirt of ring mail. A bronze boar’s head was pinned at his shoulder. “Greetings, nephew. The Great King’s messenger came and ordered a new levy, so I came, bringing the lads from the estate. We’re down there, at the bottom of the hill.”

Baraz stared down through the brush and saw, to his horror, that he knew nearly every one of the young men clustered there in their motley armor, antique weapons, and earnest expressions.

“Oh, Lord of Light,” Baraz breathed, turning to his uncle in dismay. “Is there anyone left at home?” Salabalgus shook his head silently.

Baraz ran nervous fingers through his beard and twisted a curl around his thumb. Nine years ago he had left his highland estates in Bactria with a troop of two thousand men, answering the summons of his King. There were, when last he had counted them, a few hundred left, all officers or sergeants in his Immortals. Behind them, he had been careful to leave a smattering of veterans and all of the youngsters. Someone had to guard the herds and farmland from raiders. Now Salabalgus was here, not at home, and all of those youngsters, grown up, were at the bottom of the hill.

He looked out across the vast host of men on the field and those still coming up the road. They were all too young or too old. He felt a chill. How many of us has Chrosoes killed in this war? Then he pushed a flurry of seditious thoughts aside. Battle was at hand.

Zoe‘ ran forward through the short grass, her brown legs flashing in laced-up leather boots. Dwyrin and Odenathus ran right behind her, flanking her on either side. Armenians with bows and quivers of arrows ran before them. The grass was burning ahead of them and to the right, sending trails of white smoke across the plain. Arrows whickered overhead in both directions. The Persian lines were only a hundred paces ahead. Zoe stopped, going down on one knee. Dwyrin ran up behind her and halted as well, his breathing heavy with the effort of dashing the two hundred paces from their own ranks. He did not feel tired, only exhilarated.

“Loose!” the leader of the Armenians cried. The archers stopped in a ragged line and let fly with their stout bows. Their arrows arched high and then fell, flashing, into the tightly packed ranks of the Persian spear men in front of them. There were cries of pain and a wave of angry shouting. The Armenians reached back over their shoulders for fresh arrows.

“Loose!” Zoe shouted, her forehead creased in concentration. Dwyrin had already shed the prison of flesh. He clenched his fist and whipped it through the air in front of him. Power built in it, leached from the sky and the hot stones under his feet. Pale-blue flames danced around his fist, and he flung them in a whirling ball at the spearmen. The sphere leapt from his hand like a sling bullet and shrieked across the intervening distance. Persian axemen scrambled to get out of the way, but they were pressed too tightly together. The flames were searingly bright when the sphere smashed into the chest of one of the spearmen.

The man vanished in a white-hot burst of flame. His companions screamed horribly as their flesh caught fire and the green flames leapt from man to man. Lightning danced from Zoe’s hands a moment later and lashed across the front rank like a terrible whip. More men died, their flesh crisped black and their leather armor burning merrily. Odenathus’ hand chopped down and the earth shook, toppling their ranks. Spears wavered, tangling with those behind them. Somewhere a horse screamed in pain.

Dwyrin grimaced for a moment, seeing the wailing men die, falling to the ground. He felt an odd detachment. Here, at a distance, they did not matter to him. If he had seen Eric die again, he would have felt sick, disgusted, filled with revulsion. Instead, a thrill crept along his skin as his power smashed at them again and again.

More arrows flew, turning the sky dark. The Armenians emptied their quivers into the Persian lines, then ran back toward the Roman army. Dwyrin sent one last bolt of brilliant orange flame cutting into the Persians, then he too trotted off after Zoe. A vast, angry roar rose from behind them. He looked over his shoulder and saw that the surviving ranks of Persians were beginning to jog forward.

Galen swayed in his saddle as the horse cantered along the length of the Roman lines. He had deployed his legionnaires in a double-depth frontage. The front line, five ranks deep‘, was comprised of the veteran Third Augusta at the center, with the Second Triana on one side and the Sixth Gemina on the other. Behind them was an interval twenty paces deep and then another line of five ranks. These were the Second Audiatrix on the west, the Imperial Bodyguard in the center, and the Third Gallica on the east. His banner men kept close to the Emperor, riding no more than an arm’s length away. Men wearing conicalfelt caps ran off the field between the armies and down the avenues cleared between each Legion.

Galen completed his circuit and surveyed the field. The Persian army had filled the far side of the plain with a solid mass of men and was beginning to move forward. He could not tell if it was an ordered.advance or the simple pressure of more reinforcements entering the field. He saw that the

Armenian skirmishers and the thaumaturges he had sent forward had finished retiring behind the stolid lines of legionnaires.

He looked to the west and saw that two huge wedges of Eastern knights had fanned out at the end of his line. The sun sparkled from twenty thousand lances, blinding the eye. Red Imperial banners fluttered at the center of the mass of men and horses. To the east, the Khazars had swung out in a long curved line, stretching from his anchoring cohorts to the tree line at the edge of the field. They were in constant movement, bands of horsemen galloping here and there in apparent confusion. Within the swirling screen of horse archers, Galen picked out Ziebil and his heavily armored lancers, a tight knot of fifteen thousand men.

Trumpets blared in the Roman ranks, and bucinas shrilled. The Legions advanced at walk, their great rectangular shields angled in front of them, each man carrying a javelin at the ready in his hand. The Western Emperor rode through the ranks, angling for the block of red cloaks that marked his bodyguard and the hulking shapes of the Varangians. As he passed, the men raised a cheer and he smiled and picked up the pace, his right arm thrust out in salute. Eight thousand voices rose up around him, a great booming shout:

“Ave Caesar! Ave! Roma Victrix!”

Galen smiled, his blood afire with the prospect of battle. The roar of eager men filled his ears.

“Ahriman’s three-pronged lingam!” Baraz was beside himself in fear and rage.

The front ranks of the mass of spearmen and swordsmen at the center of the rough line he and his officers had barely managed to form had suddenly broken into a run toward the Roman lines. The rest were wavering, some pushing forward, still pressed by men behind them, others trying to move back. Snarling, he glanced up and down the rest of the line. The blocks of horsemen on the right and left wings were still sorting themselves out by banner and clan. The unexpected advance of the infantry in the middle was unsupported. Hunnic horse archers scattered out of the way as sixty thousand men stormed forward, heedless of the slowly advancing lines of Romans to their front. Baraz felt sick. He wondered if the untrained peasants in front of him even knew what they were doing.

“Dispatch!” One of the lads spurred up to, ride along side him.

“To Salabalgus and Doronas on the right; tell them to wait for the mob in front of us to lock with the Roman lines and then charge if the Khazars attempt to take them in the flank.”

His uncle and the other Eastern lord had all of his heavy cavalry-the clibanari, or oven men, so named for their body-length metal armor-under some vague sort of control. If the Khazars on the Roman right wing took the opportunity of the exposed Persian infantry to charge, his countercharge could demolish the entire Roman right.

The boy galloped away. Baraz chewed on his thumb, watching the center of his army rush headlong into waiting, steady, disaster.

The Kagan Ziebil, khan of the Khazars and overlord of the Bulgar tribes, sat easily on his horse. It had been awhile since he had been in the saddle, and he found that his body remembered better than his mind did. He rubbed his stubbly beard and peered with watery blue eyes off to the right, where the lean-faced Roman king, Galen, was advancing his men at a walk into the teeth of a vast black mob of screaming Persians. Unlike the Persians, who were rushing forward in clumps and without the slightest possibility of organization, the Romans were moving forward in step, their front rank a gleaming wall of interlocking shields.

With barely fifty paces between the two armies, the Romans came to a halt, closing up the interval between their lines. The front of the line rippled as men brought javelins to their cheek and then, at the hoarse shout of bull-voiced centurions, let fly. The air was filled with a cloud of silver-tipped darts, and the running Persians suddenly staggered as the rain of iron slashed at them. Ziebil smiled, seeing the leading edge of the Persian line disintegrate into a red welter of dying men.

He gestured to one of his banner men, who dipped the long black dragon banner once, then twice.

His own long line of men, lances pointed to the sky over the distant Persian cavalry, rippled with movement, and they moved forward at a slow walk. The Khazar light cavalry commanded by Prince Dahvos had already driven off the Huns and Sacagatani archers who had been harassing them.

At the center of the field, the Romans in the first rank drew their shortswords as one, the sound of four thousand blades scraping from scabbards cutting across the tumult of the field. The second rank let fly with their javelins as more Persians rushed over the bodies of their first wave. Then the third rank let fly. The Persian infantry slowed, tangling with men trying to run back from the edge of battle and clambering over the bodies of the dead. The Romans stood firm.

The main mass of the Persians slammed into the Roman lines with a dull crash of metal. The Roman ranks staggered back three steps and then stopped. Ziebil could hear a chorus of screams rising above the din. Thousands of iron swords flashed as the legionnaires waded into the press of spearmen who had surged against them. The Kagan smiled, thinking of the bloody brawl at close quarters that unfolded along the long lines of Romans. At arm’s reach, the short stabbing swords of the Romans would have no lack of targets for their thirst. More Persians swarmed into the fray, heedless of their fellows dying in droves in front of them.

Ziebil motioned again and two flags dipped and rose. The horsemen on the right-hand side of his wedge trotted forward toward the flank of the battle. As the front of the

Persian lines ground against the Romans, the men running up behind began to spill around the edges of the Roman formation. The Khazars galloped in, rising up in their stirrups, bows at the ready. Two quivers were slung on the side of each saddle, packed to bursting with triangle-headed arrows. The lead Khazars, their horses thundering across the field, drew and let fly into the flank of the Persian formations. The air clouded with black arrows. Men began falling, pierced by the long shafts.

Salabalgus could barely see out of the narrow eyeslit of his helmet, but he could see enough. The right flank of the infantry was melting away under the rain of Khazar arrows. His commanders were shouting at him, urging him to charge into the midst of the wheeling Khazar archers and drive them off. He ignored them, watching the hilltop where the banner of the King of Kings fluttered in the air. The elderly man had fought beside Baraz for as long as the boy had been able to lift a sword. His nephew had excellent instincts for battle. Salabalgus was in no hurry to die today. He waited.

Thousands more Persian infantry poured into the center of the field. The front ranks, locked in melee with the Romans, could not bring their bows to bear, and the ranks behind could not see the enemy. The Roman legionnaires continued to slaughter them methodically, but now they were getting weary and the center of the Roman line began to bend inward.

On his hilltop, Baraz’s quick eye caught the flex in the enemy lines and saw too that the enemy right wing had continued its slow advance, leaving it only two or three hundred yards from his own right wing and the heavy cavalry there.

“Signal Salabalgus,” he shouted at his banner men. They raised the lurid green banner of the House of Lord Rhazates and waved it in a figure eight. He looked to the left where the Roman equites and lanciar? were still sitting patiently, waiting for the outcome of the infantry melee in the middle of the field.

Heraclius must be there, he thought. Being unusually patient too.

He waved a dispatch rider over. He leaned close to the boy. “Message to Lord Gundarnasp on the left. Tell him to send his Lakhmids and Huns forward against the Roman horsemen. When they are distracted, he is to charge in behind the archers.”

Baraz looked back to the right. Salabalgus’ formations were aswarm with activity as they shook out in preparation to charge. The Boar smiled, long teeth flashing in the midday sun.

The Khan Ziebil saw the waving banner too, and his eyes caught the movement among the Persian clibanari. He whistled; a piercing sound that cut the air like a knife, then pointed forward and chopped his hand down. Fifteen thousand Khazar lancers put spur to horse and leapt forward as one. The earth shook as they charged forward, their horses lengthening stride to keep up. As the charge sprinted forward, it folded out into three wedges, each one led off by a tightly packed band of heavily armored men. The ground flew past under the hooves of the horses.

At the head of the middle wedge, Ziebil at last cut loose with a long shrieking cry. Ah-la-la-la-la-la!

As they galloped forward, Ziebil’s men drew their bows, fitting shaft to string, and at a bare hundred paces-let fly. Their arrows arced up, a hungry dark cloud, and then whistled down, slashing through the ranks of the Persians. Behind the arrow storm, the horsemen continued to charge forward. Now lances rasped from their wooden sockets and were held overhand, ready to strike.

Galen felt the rumble in the earth like the soundless echo of a great drum. He rose up, shading his eyes with his hand.

The banners of the Khazars on the left wing were in full flight, plunging forward into the Persian right. He wheeled his horse and shouted for his trumpeters.

“Signal advance, Third Gallica and Second Audiatrix, by ranks, forward on the flank!”

The blare of the trumpets drowned the rest of his words. Dispatch riders pelted off for each wing of the Roman reserve. Galen slapped his thigh with a glove, staring to the west.

Where are you? he wondered, thinking of Heraclius.

Ahead of him, the two Legions that he had held back from the butcher’s work at the center of the line picked up their shields and trotted forward in column, swinging wide around the backs of the legionnaires already locked in battle.

Baraz watched in mounting fury as the confused mass of cavalry on his right wing finally sorted itself out in preparation to charge. Precious minutes had been lost as the bands of horsemen jockeyed for the front rank and snarled each other over matters of clan honor. He could make out Salabalgus’ banners, and the old man had held his position, waiting for his commanders to beat their men into position, but it was too late. The Khazar charge had sprung forward like a pack of well-trained hounds. Baraz could only look on in sick admiration at the smooth flow of the attack.

The first wedge slammed into the Persian horse at a gallop, right at the junction between Salabalgus’ formation and Doronas‘. The Persians had barely begun to move forward at a walk when the Khazar charge tore into them like a heavy axe into a lamb. The clang of the impact echoed over the whole field, and Baraz winced as the shining wedge of Khazars plowed through his right wing.

Then the second and third wedges struck home and the entire right wing collapsed into a swirl of men fighting for their lives. Salabalgus’ banner vanished under the wall of Khazar lancers and did not rise again. Baraz ground his fist into the saddle. The helms of the clibanari were bobbing silver islands in a sea of Khazar horsemen. Long hooked poles stabbed at the Persian knights, clutching at their armor and helmets. Lassos snaked out, snaring their throats.

Another sound caught Baraz‘ attention, and he turned back to the center of the field. The Roman lines in the middle had suddenly unfolded like a steel flower. The thick line of Roman infantrymen had unfurled its wings and was swinging around to compress the huge throng of Persian spearmen and levies in the center.

The Boar drummed his fingers on the saddle horn. There were only two dispatch riders left. He beckoned them over.

“You,” he said, jabbing a thick finger at the first one, “ride back along the road. Find every commander and tell them to stop coming forward. We need maneuvering room, not more problems. When you run out of bands of men to hold up, get them moving back to where we camped last night. Form up there. I fear I’ll be along presently.”

“And you,” he said to the second one, “get after Gun-darnasp on the left wing and countermand the order I sent before. He is not to attack, repeat, not to attack. He should regroup his light horse and fall back to this hill behind a screen, protecting our left.”

The boys dashed off and the Boar sat for a moment, brooding. He still had his Immortals, patiently waiting at the bottom of the hill. The center looked like a complete loss, but it would keep the Roman infantry busy for a while. The right wing was a more severe disaster. He could commit his reserve and rectify the situation, or he could wait for more troops to form up…

A thin man with a sallow face leaned close to Heraclius, whispering in his ear. The Eastern Emperor smiled, delighted at the news. He pressed a bag of heavy coins into the priest’s hand and smoothed out his mustaches. The day was proceeding in a better fashion than he had expected. He kneed his horse and it trotted forward through the ranks of waiting men. Twenty thousand heavy cavalrymen were arrayed along the right wing of the Roman army in two echelons. Heraclius reached the front rank of the echelon he commanded and wheeled his horse. His voice was amplified by the design of his helmet.

“Men of Rome! The enemy is in flight. Advance at all speed!”

The Eastern nobles picked up the cry and urged their mounts forward. Slowly at first, but picking up speed, the mass of horsemen rode forward. Within moments they were thundering over a shallow rise, bearing down on the Persian flank at full tilt.

Heraclius was in front, his great tan stallion flying over the ground. He leaned forward, reveling in the rush of wind over Kis face. He held his longsword back, parallel to the horse, waiting for the moment to strike. Persian light horse, Huns by the look of them, scattered out of the way in front of the thundering charge. Some turned in the saddle and shot arrows back at the Eastern knights, but far too few to do any damage.

The Persian horse loomed, almost at rest. They began to move forward, lashing at their horses. Heraclius could see their faces, frightened by the sight of the twin wedges of cataphracti storming toward them. The line of horses and men flew forward, legs blurring over the ground. He straightened up, his sword flashing out.

“Rome!” he shouted at the top of his voice. “Roma Vic-trix!”. •

Ziebil coughed blood onto the ground, feeling the earth under his hands shake with the thunder of hooves. Somewhere on the field of battle, a cavalry charge was going home. He staggered up, his long knife in his hand. His helmet was gone, smashed off by the blow of a Persian war mace. Blood streamed into his right eye and he blinked furiously, trying to keep it clear. Horses and men rushed by him in the swirl of battle. His horse was gone, as was the small round shield that had been strapped to his upper arm.

A Persian in half-armor spurred toward him, cutting overhand with a long curved sword. Ziebil ducked aside, slashing at the horse’s legs. He missed but felt the tip of the sword cut across his shoulder. Fresh pain blossomed and he felt cold wetness on his arm. The Khazar jumped at the next horse that thundered by but missed the saddle horn and was knocked down hard. Gasping for breath, Ziebil caught a glimpse of a long spear flashing in the sun, then there was a stunning blow to his stomach.

He cried out, but there was no breath left in his lungs. Men were shouting, and dimly he heard a voice calling his name. Darkness clouded the sky and he saw the spear rise, thin red blood sluicing off of the leaf-shaped blade. He was very cold. Men struggled over his body, but he did not care. He closed his eyes.

Baraz howled in delight, his huge sword spinning above his head. He rushed three Khazars trying to pull one of the Immortals from his armored horse with a lasso and hewed into them from behind. One head flew off, shorn clean from the man’s neck, and the other two screamed as he mauled them. The Boar and his men pressed on, wreaking terrible havoc on the more lightly armored and armed Khazars. The Persian right flank began to re-form around tHE solid core of the Immortals.

The remaining Khazars fell back behind a flurry of arrows. Baraz did not pursue. The Boar rallied the men who had followed Doronas and Salabalgus, both of whom were dead, to him and fell back toward the hill.

Galen and his staff watched the Khazars fall back in disarray on their left. The red and yellow banners of the Persian Immortals waved amid the heaps of dead that were left in their wake. The Western Emperor frowned and made a quick count to himself. The Third Gallica was locked in a fierce struggle on the left wing of the Persian infantry, trying to turn the line and roll it up. A scattering of Khazar archers were all that stood between his exposed infantry and the Persian heavy horse.

“Caesar!” One of his staff officers was pointing to the west. Galen turned.

Heraclius’ charge had slammed home, brushing aside the remains of the Hunnic archers and crumpling the entire Persian right wing. Persian horsemen were fleeing south in ones and twos, but more were being hewn down by Heraclius’ men as they surged across the Persian flank. Galen smiled grimly and signaled to his trumpeters.

“Sound retreat, ten paces and stand,” he shouted. The trumpets blared again, a sharp staccato. The buccinators wailed. “Signal the guard to swing right and cover the flank of the Third Gallica.”

Behind him the Varangians and Germans ran forward, their axes and longswords at the ready. Galen turned his horse, watching the Persian line. His legionnaires backed off, their front re-forming where their ranks had been eaten away by the melee. Fresh men rushed in to fill the holes in the line. The Persians staggered forward and then stopped in confusion. The relentless pressure that had been forcing them forward had stopped. The Roman front was solid again, a bristling wall of shields, spears, and swords. Men shouted at the rear of the Persian formations. Many men turned, staring to their rear. Heraclius and his knights swept down the hillside toward the spearmen. The Persians began to mill about, shouting. Then a man on the left wing started running. Within moments the entire mass, still at least thirty thousand men, was in flight.

Heraclius’ knights, screaming their battle cry, plowed into the running infantry. Galen closed his eyes for a moment, but the din filled his ears even so. A great wailing rose up. It was enough. He spurred his horse forward. “All Legions, advance at a walk!” The Western Legions surged forward, closing the trap. f

“Lord of Corruption, I commit my soul to your keeping…”

Baraz shook his head. The Immortals had collapsed into a broad arc around his position at the eastern end of the plain. Scattered bands of Persians-horsemen, archers, spearmen-accreted to his banner like salt around a string suspended in brine. The rest of the field was a disaster. Tens of thousands of Persians lay dead and many more staggered south, heading for the chaos of the road, their formations scattered and broken. He could not make out Rhazames’ banner in the middle of the field, and he was sure that Gundarnasp and all of the entire left wing of the army had been destroyed.

Now the Romans were redressing their lines. From where he sat upon his horse, he could not tell if any of the Roman cohorts had been destroyed. Soon they would march against him. Baraz beckoned his officers to him.

“This day is done. Send the men on foot ahead. Then the horse. The road south will be a charnel house. We will strike due east, through the woods to the shore of the sea and then south, back to Persian lands.”

Baraz stared out over the field, his mind ignoring the windrows of dead, the wandering, riderless horses. The Roman army crouched in the middle of the field, a scaled and plated creature with myriad sharp spines. He shook his head, wishing for a fleeting moment that the King of Kings had not seized so greedily upon Dahak’s power. If he had come to this field by horse, the advance of the Persian army would have been delayed into the spring, giving him time to flog the inexperienced men into some kind of army.

No matter, he thought. Chrosoes has made his throw of the dice and lost. Now if only I can escape this debacle with my own head intact! ‘

He did laugh then, for the game of wits and skill that he embarked upon pleased him. The Immortals near him shuddered-the sound of such gay laughter in this place was madness.